Page 77 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

Her breathing picked up at thoughts of her brother, her heart speeding in her chest, and she felt giddy as panic overtook her.

“Hush, lass,” Mr Hardy said.

She gasped and gasped, but no air seemed to reach her lungs.

He moved, getting to his knees before her and taking both of her hands in his. “Look at me,” he commanded, and there was such force behind the words there was no possible way she could do anything else. “You’re safe here,” he said, squeezing her hands. “You’re safe.”

Grace nodded as her heart settled at his reassurance, her breathing slowing a little.

“H-He’ll c-come for me,” she said, trying to keep the panic at bay.

“Your brother?”

She nodded, holding onto his hands far harder than he held hers, as if he was her lifeline, the only thing keeping her from sliding into dark waters.

“You’re afraid of him?”

Grace nodded again, fighting not to cry.

Mr Hardy frowned at that, his expression troubled. “We’d have to hide you if he came,” he said, and she could tell he was uncomfortable with the idea. “He’s your legal guardian, is he not?”

“Yes,” she said, knowing it was unavoidable.

If Mr Hardy didn’t want to bother himself with her, if she caused him too much trouble, it would be easier to hand her back. She belonged to her brother, after all… until she was married.

Her heart gave an uneven lurch in her chest.

“Why does he frighten you so much?” Mr Hardy asked, still holding her hands. “Does he…?”

He paused as his gaze fell to where their hands were clasped. She’d rolled up the sleeves of the shirt, as they were too long, and one was pushed farther up her arm than the other, exposing bruises, dark and angry against her pale skin.

Mr Hardy grew very still.

Grace withdrew her hands from his and tugged at the sleeve, covering the bruises, shame rising within her. Perhaps he’d believe she’d deserved it. She’d been sitting holding his hands, a man she’d just met. She was alone with him. Perhaps he’d think….

Mr Hardy took her hand back and pushed the sleeve up again, his eyes fixed on the bruises. “He do that?” he asked, his voice low.

Grace nodded and her heart skipped at the way his expression darkened.

“Why?” he demanded. “What excuse did he give for laying hands on ye in such a way? For I tell ye now, Miss Honeyfield, there’s no excuse, none in the world other than that the man who calls himself your kin is a vile brute.”

She stared at him in wonder. No one had ever taken her part before. No one had ever stood up for her. They were too afraid of her father while he lived, and then Harold.

“My brother, Harold, is in debt,” she said, trying to calm herself enough to explain. “My father’s estate was not as wealthy as he’d supposed, and the inheritance he’d relied upon not enough to support his lifestyle. The property is entailed and so… and so—”

Mr Hardy covered her hand within his and she thrummed with the awareness of the strength held within the man before her, strength he was trying to lend her, to make her brave. “It’s all right. Tell me. I’ll help ye, I swear I will.”

Grace stared at him, at the sincerity in his eyes.

“He arranged a marriage for me, with a man who has always… he’s always….” She took a breath, encouraged by the warmth of his hand, by the firm clasp of his fingers around hers. It ought to shock her, appal her, this dreadful lapse of propriety— with his rough hand holding hers, without even gloves between them—and it was rather shocking, but it also made her feel safe and protected. That was too novel and wonderful a sensation to give up lightly. It made her believe he meant what he said to her. “He was a friend of my father’s, m-much older than me, and—”

“Ye don’t like him?”

Grace shook her head, trying hard not to become hysterical at the idea she didn’t like Mr Carrington.

“You’re afraid of him?”

She nodded this time. “H-Harold is a b-brute, like you said, but Mr C-Carrington—”